


All The Hollows Deep

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arthur is brilliant, BAMF!Martin, Bloodletting, Christian mysticism, Gen, Horror, Jewish mysticism, Milton - Freeform, Self-Sacrifice, Supernatural - Freeform, and yet also strangely schmoopy, paternal!Douglas, supernatural (but not like the TV show)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Martin dies, he'll die a martyr.<br/> </p><p>Written for this prompt on the meme: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=5067375&posted=1#cmt5337455</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"It is a truth universally acknowledged," mutters Douglas, "that one should never engage in a land war in Asia. One should also avoid making a cargo flight across it in an aeroplane without the precaution of arranging some really excellent in-flight entertainment."

"Not all of us need continuous entertainment," Martin mutters back, just to be contrary. Douglas hasn't got any right to complain. He'd snaffled the crossword, and he's completing it in pen. 

"Oh? Quite content to be left to your thoughts, are you?"

"The mind is its own place, and can itself make a Heaven of Hell, or a Hell of Heaven." 

A pleasantly warm feeling of smugness suffuses him when Douglas peers at him disbelievingly over the top of his reading glasses. "Milton, Martin? Really?"

"I did A levels, thank you very much."

"Hmmph." Douglas looks back down at his crossword. Martin represses a sigh and leans back in his chair. Despite his brave words, his best efforts at entertaining himself quietly have only led to staring blankly at the instrument panel while he calculates his finances for the next fortnight, and tries to decide whether he can afford to up his current eBay bid on the 2002 edition of Flight Simulator. 

Just then, Arthur enters the cockpit, bearing their coffee. 

The moment he crosses the threshold, all the gauges on the instrument panel begin to _dip_. 

Martin freezes. The pilot in him is panicking, but something older than that is making him quiet and still, whispering that none of the warning alarms are going off, that something is wrong here.

A second later, the instruments right themselves, like they've just noticed someone is looking. 

Martin glances over at Douglas, who, apparently, hasn't noticed a thing. And Martin knows for certain that his hands haven't been near the controls for the last hour. Martin looks at Arthur, who's finding a safe location to deposit Douglas's coffee, since Douglas can't be arsed to reach out and take it for himself. 

Now that Martin is paying attention, he can, without even trying, feel the _differences_ in the air around Arthur. They're in a sealed, pressurized metal tube, but Arthur has brought the smell of ozone with him into the cockpit.

"And for you, Skip," says Arthur, brightly, presenting Martin with his mug.

Martin takes it, unable to keep from narrowing his eyes. Arthur is smiling at him, and his eyes reflect nothing but their usual innocent satisfaction with the world. 

But when their fingers brush, it's all Martin can do not to drop the coffee. He yelps. Douglas looks up, eyebrows arched.

"Oh, sorry, Skip, it's hot. Well, obviously it's hot, but maybe I got it too hot. Are you okay?" Arthur takes a step closer, radiating concern.

"I'm fine," says Martin immediately, straightening in his seat. He holds up a hand, palm out, to stop Arthur's advance. "Nothing to worry about. Um, thank you. For the coffee. Would you mind looking for some biscuits?"

"Sure thing, Skip," says Arthur, vanishing.

Martin stares after him for a long moment, finally allowing himself to blink. 

"All right, Martin?" says Douglas. "Why are you staring like that? Skipping meals again, are you?"

"Sorry, what?" Martin only has half an ear to listen to Douglas with. He's distracted by the fact that there's a frost etching along the bottom of the wall, closest to where Arthur's feet had been. 

"You seem awfully keen on Arthur returning with those biscuits, that's all. You haven't taken your eyes off the door."

What does he have with him? Nothing, really, not even a crucifix. Just his lucky coin. It's not a coin at all, actually, just a small metal disc, but it was solid silver. Martin had promised his Granddad years ago never to leave home without it, so he keeps it in his wallet.

"Douglas." Martin manages to keep his voice calm. Casual is more than he's capable of at the moment. "Did anything about Arthur seem strange to you just now?"

Douglas opens his mouth.

"Stranger than _usual_ , I mean."

Douglas closes his mouth, looking slightly put out. "Can't say I noticed anything," he says. "Why, what do you think is wrong with him?"

 _The fires of the Pit burn cold and so do those who serve there._ "I think he might have taken a chill," says Martin.

"Poor chap," says Douglas, with exaggerated pity.

Martin settles back in his seat and eyes the instrument panel warily. Seconds, then minutes tick past. Arthur doesn't return. Martin presses a hand to his hip pocket, feels the shape of his wallet through fabric, and the indent of the coin through the thin, worn leather beneath.

Is it worth the potential consequences, making sure? Perhaps he should wait until they'd landed. Except they aren't going to land for another eight hours, and in the mean time, Arthur…

Something is very wrong here. There are two worlds, two governing realities with their own distinct rules and natural laws. Martin's got one foot in both of them, and Arthur's not making sense by the standards of either.

"You have control," he tells Douglas, standing abruptly, before he can change his mind.

"Good lord, Martin, I have an apple if you're as hungry as that. The biscuits in the galley are horrid."

"Yes, I know. All the same, Douglas."

Douglas sighs, and puts his crossword down with an aggrieved air. "I have control."

Martin takes a deep breath and steps through the door.

 

*

 

That was how it started. With Arthur, of all people.

Well, that's not precisely true. Not if you were being technical.

At the _start_ , there was war in Heaven, and the chaos of the Interregnum, followed by the o'er-teeming of the Pit, after which the Captain of the Host received warrant from the Throne to bestow the Blessing on the sons and daughters of men, to aid in the great conflict with the Adversary.

More recently, there was Martin's granddad, but he died when Martin was seventeen.

Now it's just Martin. There's no one else left. At least, no one who can reach them before GERTI crashes, somewhat ironically, into one of the Sacred Mountains.

Not that Martin thinks that's actually going to happen. It's just a possibility. A worse case scenario, of sorts.

It's best to be prepared.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

 

If Martin didn't already know something was very, very wrong with Arthur, he'd know it by the fact that, when he enters the galley, Arthur doesn't speak to him, look at him, or acknowledge his presence in any way. He just sits, as though hypnotized, in an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair beside the small cabinet holding the microwave.

Martin doesn't try to disturb him. He tries to act as naturally as possible, rummaging in the refrigerator for a bottle of the fancy, distilled water they keep for passengers. When he finds it, he pours it into a plastic cup, then removes the silver coin from his wallet, and drops it in.

It fizzes slightly for a second, like an antacid tablet, then goes inert. Martin waits exactly three minutes, then pours the pure water into another cup, rubs the coin dry on his jacket, and puts it away again.

"Arthur," he says, "have you fallen asleep?"

Arthur jerks, like Martin's shaken him, and blinks a few times.

"Wow, that was strange," he says wonderingly. "I guess I must have done. Did you need something, Skip?"

"I was just checking whether you'd found those bis--" The cup slips from Martin's hand, spilling the water across the worktop. "Oh, how stupid of me," he says.

"I'll clean it up!" On cue, Arthur springs into action. Martin watches carefully as he selects a dishcloth and begins mopping up the spill.

Martin doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Arthur, putting his hand into the puddle, draws it back again with a squeal of pain.

"That _really hurt_ ," says Arthur, holding his arm by the wrist. He frowns down at the worktop. "Were you making tea, Skip?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, the water was hot. I should have told you." Every muscle in Martin's body is tensed, but Arthur's expression of gentle confusion doesn't alter in the slightest. "Rinse your hand with cool water from the tap. Should stop it blistering."

"Right." Arthur's already recovered his good cheer, and he does as he's instructed.

A sudden, sharp spike of anger drills upwards into Martin's heart through his stomach. How dare They attempt to infest _Arthur_ , of all people? Arthur, who is as close to truly innocent as any human has been since the Fall. Martin had turned his back on this life years ago, forsaking the battlefield of earth and taking to the skies. Up here, he was that much closer to the Throne, where, supposedly, there was peace.

But he's not going to turn his back on Arthur. And he's not going to let Arthur suffer any more than he can help. It's bad enough Martin had to hurt him like this, just to confirm his suspicions. But that was what They did of course. They had no power to inflict suffering in this realm, except by through what they could persuade humans to do to each other. And suffering was what they existed for.

"Arthur," says Martin, "when we get to the hotel tonight, do you want to…hang out, for a bit? Watch something maybe, in my room?"

His face lights up with so much excitement that Martin instantly feels guilty for never having asked Arthur to do anything of the kind before.

"That would be _brilliant_ ," says Arthur. "What do you want to watch? Oh, I know, how about Star Wars? Star Trek? Battlestar Galactica?"

"Anything. You can pick."

Tears of actual _joy_ spill from the corners of Arthur's eyes. Martin stares at him, and sees the pupils widen and darken, see the darkness traverse the edges of the iris and begin to blacken the sclera. _Oh God_ , he thinks hysterically, and takes an automatic step backwards. There's no time to escape, he'll have to shout a warning to Douglas and try to stay alive long enough for him to land the plane--

But then Arthur blinks the tears away, and when Martin looks again, his eyes are the same clear, puppy-dog brown as always. Martin's jaw drops, and a realization _clicks_ in his head, almost audibly. 

Of _course_. He ought to have seen it ages ago--but then, what are the odds? There are only thirty-six in the entire world at one time.

For a brief, passionate moment, Martin wishes that his granddad were still alive, so he could tell him about Arthur, so the old man could meet him.

Arthur is innocent. Not in the ignorant way of a child--he's a grown man, and now that Martin's met Arthur's father, he knows that Arthur has known suffering. But somehow, that's made no difference. He's untarnished.

And the _thing_ inside him is trapped, because it hadn't recognized one of the Righteous when it saw him.

"Skip? Did I say something wrong?" Arthur's frowning at him. "You're looking at me like I said something."

"No, Arthur, no." Martin smiles and shakes his head, and keeps smiling. "Arthur, you-- _you_ are brilliant."

The force of Arthur's smile could have powered a sun. But then, it was already saving the world.

 

*

 

"Douglas, I need you to do me a favor."

Martin has returned to the cockpit, but he hasn't sat down yet. He looms over Douglas, to the best of his looming ability, which probably isn't that good, but at least Douglas has to look up at him for once.

"Really?" says Douglas. "Pray tell."

Martin frowns. "That's it? No negotiating?"

"As I believe I've told you already, I'm always interested in accumulating debts of honor. What is it you need?"

Martin takes a deep breath. He'd thought getting Douglas to help him would be the hard part. Now, he realizes, that actual hard part is going to be getting through this trip without Douglas handing him over to the men in white coats at the end of it.

"I…need some things." He hands Douglas the list he'd scrawled while he was in the galley. "When we land, I'm taking Arthur straight to my room, and it's very, very important that he doesn't leave it again until--until I say he can. I'll have to stay with him, so I need you to use your hypnotic powers over the human mind and get this stuff for me, as fast as you possibly can."

Douglas is frowning, which Martin had expected. But he looks more worried than he does annoyed, or scornful. He takes the list and skims it, his eyes widening.

"Salt, lots of it. Candles. Water. Crucifix." Douglas blinks up at him. "You want me to find you a crucifix--in _China_."

"Holy water will be better, if you can manage it, but a crucifix will do."

"Martin, you do know that they imprison people for practicing Christianity in this country, don't you?"

"Ah. No." Martin's shoulders fall. "I didn't. Wait, they do that? That's a human rights violation!"

"Well, that's why we don't allow them into the G8." Douglas adjusts his reading glasses and looks at the list again. "Blankets, pillows--you do realize the hotel will come already equipped with blankets and pillows."

"We're likely to want extra."

"For what, a pious, electrolyte-balanced slumber party? What on earth is going on, Martin?"

He'd really, really hoped he could get out of this without trying to explain. "Could you just--trust me, Douglas? Arthur's life might depend on this."

"Well now that you put it like that, _no_." Douglas takes his glasses off and looks at Martin sternly.

Martin heaves a sigh and sits down heavily. "Demons are real. One's in Arthur. I need these things to get it out of him."

Silence.

And…more silence.

"Yes, I know I sound mad," Martin says, irritably. "But the long version wouldn't make me sound any less mad, I promise."

"Now that, I believe."

"Douglas, I don't care if you believe me or not. For God's sake, just help me, and afterwards you can make fun of me, or have me sectioned, or whatever you like."

Seconds tick past, and Martin sees Douglas struggling to come to some sort of resolution. Finally, Douglas nods. "Fine," he says. "I'll help you. But you will owe me, in ways you cannot possibly fathom."

"Yes, I will." Martin heaves a huge, relieved sigh. "There's one more thing."

"I tremble to think."

"We need to divert."

"What?"

"I need to get started as soon as possible. Arthur's--surprisingly strong, he's resisting, but he's in very real danger."

To Martin's amazement, Douglas simply nods and calls the diversion in to ATC. When he's done, he turns a blinding grin on Martin.

"That one was on the house," he says. "Because _you_ get to be the one who explains to Carolyn."

"Oh Christ."

"The very man."


	3. Chapter 3

3.

 

The _thing_ in Arthur first begins to stir when Douglas knocks on the door of their hastily-booked hotel room.

They're watching the first of the Star Wars prequels ("because Jar Jar is _brilliant_ ," according to Arthur) and when Douglas lets himself into the room, Arthur goes very, very still. His nostrils widen. He sniffs the air.

His head swivels, and his eyes fix unblinkingly on Douglas.

Douglas stares back at Arthur, and, whatever Douglas may still think of Martin's sanity, he can obviously see with his own eyes that there is something terribly _off_ about him. Martin crosses the room hastily and reaches for the shopping bag Douglas is holding.

"You were quick," says Martin. "No trouble, I hope?"

"Nothing to speak of," says Douglas slowly. He can't seem to take his eyes off Arthur.

Martin opens the bag and peers at its contents. Three large boxes of table salt, good. Chalk, good, bottled water, candles, the blanket from Gerti's first-aid stores, all good.

"You couldn't find the crucifix, I take it," he says, in a low voice.

Douglas clears his throat. Then he reaches into his pocket and presses something into Martin's hand. Martin looks down and sees an elegant blue and silver rosary coiled in his palm.

"It's mine," says Douglas. "My mother was Catholic. Since she died, I've carried it with me."

He sounds faintly embarrassed, but Martin could kiss him and his dead mother both. "Thank you, Douglas," he says fervently. "You'd better get out of here now."

"You expect me to leave?"

"Yes, you must. It's too dangerous, if you stay."

"Martin." There's no trace of his customary braggadocio in Douglas's voice. "I don't pretend to understand exactly what you're intending to do. But you've informed me, several times and with increasing degrees of barely-concealed panic, that Arthur's life may be in peril. I'm not leaving you."

It's all Martin can do not to tear his own hair out by the handful, because any other time, this admission of concern from Douglas would be as welcome as it is touching. But Douglas has no idea what's at stake, and Martin, for once the expert, has a duty to protect him.

"Listen to me properly for once in your life." Martin takes a step closer to Douglas, so there's no real space between them. "It's not just Arthur. This is incredibly risky stuff, and I've never done it alone before, and there's a good chance it might kill us both. _Someone_ has to tell Carolyn what happened, if things go wrong."

Douglas's eyes widen. Martin flushes, but holds his gaze, willing him to see reason.

"Chaps," says Arthur, "what's going on?"

It's a bit like Arthur's voice. If Martin weren't already on alert, he might not have noticed the sly, drawn-out undertone to his question. 

"Nothing, Arthur. Just discussing room service." Douglas, ever ready with an easy lie.

"Oh? Is that what you've got in the bag?" And then, in a much deeper voice, entirely unlike his own: " _Can I see?_ "

Martin just hears Douglas's sharp gasp, before Arthur springs out of the chair and across the room. He's fast. Faster than any human could ever be.

Without thinking, Martin shoves Douglas back and _wheels_ , thrusting the rosary out before him. Arthur stops abruptly.

"Christ," whispers Douglas, and Arthur's pupils begin to dilate.

Just as Martin is about to tell Douglas to leave again, to shove him out the open door if necessary, the door slams shut, untouched. The little red light on the card reader turns from green to red. Locked. Martin's willing to bet his van it won't unlock with a simple swipe of the keycard, either.

"Douglas." Martin's surprised how even and calm his own voice sounds. "Do precisely as I say. Take the salt, draw a circle around you, and don't, for any reason, leave the circle unless I say. Take the bag with you."

"Oh, is this a game?" says Arthur. "Is it like hopscotch? Can I play?"

"Not just now, Arthur," says Martin, as Douglas moves silently to the opposite side of the large room and removes the salt from the bag.

It is very difficult to think, holding the crucifix before him like a loaded gun and watching the subtle shift and play of expression in Arthur's face. But he _has_ to think, because it's been ten years since he walked away from the conflict, because he's never been in a situation like this before, never with _friends_.

He's got a choice to make. He can try to do this the usual way, which will hurt Arthur even if it works, and might end with one or all of them dying if it doesn't. His grandfather had chosen Martin, over Simon or Caitlin or any of their cousins, but just because he's received the Blessing, it doesn't mean he's strong enough for this.

The alternative is something he's never tried and never heard of, either because it's suicidal, or because none of the Fallen have ever possessed one of the Righteous before now. Possibly both.

What it all boils down to, Martin realizes, is a fairly simple question. Who does he believe in more: Arthur, or himself? 

Put like that, the decision is an easy one.

"Arthur," he says. "I want you to listen to me very, very closely. Can you do that?"

"Of course, Skip." Arthur sounds like himself, and just himself, and Martin can't help smiling.

"You are brilliant, Arthur," Martin says. "Not just brilliant, but special, more special than you can ever know. All those things people have said to you, the names they've called you, none of it was right. You're the best man I've ever known, and if I live to be a hundred, I'll probably never meet anyone as good as you ever again."

Arthur is uncharacteristically speechless under all this praise, but his eyes brighten with tears.

"In the whole world, out of all the billions of people who live here, there are only a few people who--" Martin swallows. "Who are righteous in the eyes of God. Do you understand what that means, Arthur?"

Arthur's eyes are huge. He gets a faraway look, like he's really thinking about what Martin is saying. Then he blinks, and smiles, and nods.

"Good. That's good." Martin smiles back at him. "How do you feel?"

"Umm." Arthur tilts his head consideringly. "Sort of…strange. Happy, because we're hanging out, and because you're being so nice to me. But also sort of, I don't know. Squirmy. Like I might have a stomach ache."

"Yes, all right, good." Martin takes a step backwards and draws a deep breath. "Douglas, can you light some of those candles? The power might start going a bit wonky in a moment."

Douglas doesn't speak, but there's a rustle of plastic, and then the flick of a cigarette lighter. Martin wishes he could turn around and get a look at his face, to see what he's making of all this, but he can't afford to be distracted for a single moment.

"Now, Arthur, here's where it gets tricky. Inside you, there's something--wrong. Something that isn't _you_. It's what's making you feel like you've got a stomach ache, but it's not really a stomach ache, it's something that wants to hurt you and make you do bad things to me and to Douglas. It's probably getting worse as I'm talking, isn't it?"

"Yes," Arthur whispers. He looks scared. Martin's only seen him look like that once before, in the presence of his father.

"Don't be frightened of it," says Martin, as gently as he can. "You don't need to be frightened of it. You're stronger than it is. If it had picked me, or Douglas, or almost anyone else, it would have taken us over by now. It--inhabited you, because it wanted your soul, but it can't get in. It's been trying all this while, and you've kept it out, without even knowing you were doing it."

"How?" says Arthur. He's started to tremble, but his back is straight, like he's trying very hard to look brave.

"I don't know," says Martin. "But _you_ do. You're one of the Righteous, beloved by the Throne."

Behind him, Martin hears Douglas make a choked-sounding noise. "But what does that mean, Skip?" wails Arthur.

Martin breathes in deeply. Now's the moment. 

"Douglas." Martin speaks fast, to stop anyone interrupting him. "When I say the word, you've got to hit me as hard you can. Use the lamp if you have to, anything you can, but you've got to knock me out cold. You--" Martin chokes, but forces the words past the knot in his throat. "You've got to kill me, if I won't go down. Do you understand?"

"What the _hell_ \--"

"Skip--"

"Promise me!" Martin shouts, hardly able to see through the blur of the tears in his eyes.

"I--all right, I'll knock you out, but--"

"Arthur, close your eyes. Go deep inside yourself. Find the demon and make it leave. It won't fight you, it's trapped and it doesn't want to be there anymore. Give it a shove and it'll go."

"But--"

If Martin dies, he'll die a martyr. His soul will be safe, and he'll be received by the Throne. 

At least, he hopes so.

"Arthur." He drops the rosary and grasps Arthur's hand as hard as he can. The cold sears him like fire. " _Now_."

When it happens, it's exactly what Martin always thought death would feel like, except for the pain, which is beyond imagination or description. He can feel his consciousness ebbing, like chalk marks disappearing under an eraser as it's dragged across a slate. 

At the far edges of the darkness crowding his vision, he can see the red flames of the Pit beckoning him downwards.

" _Douglas_ ," he chokes, pleading.

A scream. Noises, like something heavy falling. Pain.

Silence.

 

*

 

Darkness.

Martin thinks his eyes are open. Assuming he still has eyes. Maybe it's just the memory of what having eyes felt like, when he was alive. But the darkness is somehow visible, different from true blindness. 

And in the distance, he can see flames.

"Martin."

Fingers brush the side of his face. They're strong, but gentle.

"Martin, it's Douglas, can you hear me?"

 _No,_ thinks Martin, despairingly. _Not Douglas._ Douglas is a good man, he doesn't belong here. 

"You were right, the power's gone out. I'm afraid I didn't bring enough candles to make the room very bright. Can you see me?"

Martin blinks.

"Douglas?" His voice is a croak.

He hears a long, gusty sigh, and actually feels the air against the side of his face as it's expelled. That, finally, is what convinces him. Nobody breathes, in the Pit. Of that, he is fairly certain.

"Are you all right?" Something moves in the darkness, and after a moment Martin's eyes begin to adjust. He can see Douglas's face, a gathering-point of worry lines.

"Arthur," he whispers.

"Unconscious," says Douglas. "He--did something to you. I don't know what. I hit you rather hard, I'm afraid, but then you--stood up again, and it clearly wasn't _you_ at the controls, so to speak. Arthur grabbed hold of you, and. Well, I suppose, he." Douglas blinks. "Sent the demon away."

It takes a moment for Martin to register this. When he does, he clambers to his feet. Douglas catches hold of him by the shoulders, forcing him to keep him still.

"Let go," Martin gasps. "Or help me up."

Douglas hesitates, then wraps an arm around his waist and all but drags him to his feet. Martin reaches for the nearest candle, and, spying the shopping bag at the foot of the bed, plucks the salt out of it. He presses the box that's already open into Douglas's hands and begins to tear at the other.

"Draw a line. Every window, every door." His voice is deeper than normal, breathless with urgency. "Like nailing a plank across. Be thorough."

Douglas gapes at him, but after a moment spent watching Martin dart from window to window, he strides briskly to the door that leads to the corridor and pours a line of salt over the carpet.

"Interior doors as well?" he asks. "The closet?"

"No," says Martin, "but keep the salt on you. And hand me the chalk."

Douglas stands near Martin's shoulder, as Martin kneels and traces a sigil in white on the dark carpet just before the door. "Do you have a knife?" he asks Douglas, when he's finished.

"I've got a pen knife," says Douglas, sounding suspicious. "Why?"

"I need to smear blood over the lintel of the door."

Douglas stares down at him for a second, the muscles around his clenched mouth working furiously. Then he takes the knife out, and opens it with a flick of his hand. Martin reaches out to take it, but Douglas doesn't surrender it.

"The lintel, you said?"

Martin nods.

"You're much too short to reach," says Douglas. 

Before Martin can protest, Douglas draws the blade down across his own wrist. Flesh divides beneath steel, but he doesn't make a sound, and when the dark blood wells up, he reaches over Martin's head and paints a line of crimson over the door.

A noise like the howling of the wind echoes down the corridor outside. The door rattles. Martin slumps, knees buckling slightly. Douglas grabs him.

"What's going to happen?" he asks, his voice low and uncertain.

Martin shuts his eyes and leans into Douglas, grateful for the warmth, the breath, the humanity of him. "The Fallen can't survive long on earth without infesting a human soul. It's looking for someone else. If we're lucky, it won't find anyone."

"And if we're not?"

Martin just shakes his head.

They stand in silence for a moment. Eventually, Douglas leads him over to a chair and pushes him into it. Martin looks up, as Douglas gazes down at him with dark, unreadable eyes.

"You were prepared to die to protect us," he says.

Martin can think of nothing to say to this, except, "Yes."

Douglas runs a hand over his face. Then he kneels. Stunned, Martin holds very still, as Douglas leans forward and presses a dry kiss to his forehead.

"Accept a father's blessing," he says. 

Martin bows his head, blinking against the tears. When the screaming starts in the courtyard below the windows, Martin reaches for Douglas, and, together they hold on.


End file.
